Dinner
by Time Lord of many names
Summary: It is displeasing when the job interferes with a date. ... To my Master. Happy birthday, my dear one.


**Music:** _«_ _Call Me Irresponsible» by_ _Bobby Darin._

* * *

"Sorry, I was busy," Bond says, straightening his suit with an usual gesture and adjusting the bow-tie in a clumsy manner. Q looks at him either with a reproach or a condescension.

"Are you talking about those two bodies that have flown by before breaking a ritzy mirror behind me to pieces?"

Double-oh-seven shrugs his shoulders awkwardly and smiles.

"Do you feel sorry for a mirror?"

The restaurant staff is fussing around, looking at Bond apprehensively. The manager is already calling the police. Q snorts and shakes his head.

"No, I feel sorry for the fact that it is the third time this week that we can't have a dinner without you being wringing someone's neck. And yes," he rearranges his glasses to look even more severe — as if it could produce any effect, "you are late."

"Sorry," Bond answers plainly, holding out a hand in an act of reconciliation to pull Q off the seat in one move, after scanning the room with a fleet glance first. "We have to go."

Bond's palm is unpleasantly wet and hot. The quartermaster is grumbling while taking up the strap of his laptop bag and throwing it over the shoulder.

"You could at least wash your hands," he mutters under his breath.

"What?" Bond asks.

Q narrows his eyes, looking like a small displeased owl, shooed off its familiar spot.

"Where are your manners, double-oh-seven? Appearing for dinner with your hands not washed after work first. You are british and gentleman, after all."

"Sorry," Bond apologizes, again, "I had no time at all."

They are running along the streets. Gunshots are heard behind, again.

"But I'm wearing the tuxedo at least," double-oh-seven goes on, winking cheerfully. "What can't be said about you."

Q's ears are blushing subtly, he prims his lips while trying not to lag.

"I came in time, though."

"Well, sorry," Bond turns round harshly, with a couple of shots off the target and the third right on taking the shooter down. "I apologized before."

"The third time a week, James!" the quartermaster says quietly and almost menacingly, rearranging his glasses, slipped because of the run.

"It comes with the job," double-oh-seven explains willingly, not paying at his tone any attention. "Well, you know, don't you?" he makes a vague move with his hand. "Every now and then pulling or rather not pulling the trigger," he laughs again while looking around in a quest for any stooges not finished off and a decent place to pull displeased Q into for an almost frustrated dinner.

"I hate you sometimes," the quartermaster hisses while thinking that much easier it would be to just order the pizza or the chinese food to the key room, and Bond laughs louder.

"Well, that's sometimes, isn't it?" he winks again, reducing to zero any quips that were on the tip of Q's tongue just a second ago with his idiotic smile. "I promise to return all the equipment in one piece this time."

"I suppose it will be a lump of the scrap metal, fused in a total mess ," Q snorts, rolling up his eyes.

"Are you aware that you look like a small displeased owl?" Bond clears up for no obvious reason, peering at him.

"And you are like husky that was forgotten during the vaccination against rabies," the quartermaster retorts, raising an eyebrow.

Double-oh-seven smiles widely, almost scintillating with smugness, as if heard an exquisite compliment. Having noticed the thai restaurant down the street, he nods to its side.

"And what do owls think of the thai food? Because husky are good with it."

Q sneers in disbelief and shakes his head.

"Didn't the fact that I'm eating noodles almost every day give you a hint?"

"It did. I'm just trying to be a gentleman," Bond adjusts his bow-tie again, offering Q an elbow.

He casts a keen glare at him, ignoring the offered hand, and heads at a quick pace in the pointed direction, muttering something under his breath. Double-oh-seven laughs, taking down an agent, noted on the side street just in time, with a precise shot, and thinks that it would be good if they were out of stock already.

"Bond!" the quartermaster calls him out, his arms folded, before vanishing through the door. "Don't make me wait for you again."

Bond smiles with a half of his mouth, after rubbing gunpowder dust clumsily off his hands with a handkerchief, and, having his perfectly sitting as it is bow-tie adjusted for the third time, follows him.


End file.
